The whole weekend I was awash with love.
My joy impenetrable. Nothing could pierce it. Not being in the red the day after payday. Not the guilt about Dale. Not the trip to Sainsbury’s when he made us wait for an age by the chilled section to ensure we were first on the scene for the new yellow-stickered clearance items. Not Edward’s unreasonable grumpiness on the phone because he wouldn’t have any Bovril until Monday. Not even your silence.
When Monday finally arrived, I awoke at six, in Dale’s bed, listening to his elephantine snores, his body encased in most of the duvet, which in turn exposed my shivering body to the early, frosted air. But I was lofty with excitement at seeing you again in a few hours. Still high on my perch.
Then I remembered.
It was her birthday.
It’s funny, grief, isn’t it? How you die with them. Whoever you were before has gone. Your ghost walks the earth. You look the same, sound the same, but are not the same. You don’t breathe oxygen the way you did before. You negotiate life under an ocean. Drowning as you do your shopping, drowning as you ride the bus, drowning as you go to work. You can’t live with this, you think. No one could live with this. It’s unliveable.
Then there are moments when your head rises above the water. You find something funny, laugh. A glimpse of your previous self. Until you are submerged once again. Guilty for your brief ability to breathe.
Over time the water levels drop.
First you tread water; then you swim; then you wade; then you are paddling; until finally you are walking alongside a stream. It flows next to you. Wherever you are, whatever you do, however happy you’re feeling, it’s there.
But sometimes, be it a song, a crumpled shopping list found in a coat pocket, an anniversary, their birthday, your birthday, Christmas, hearing the theme tune to Coronation Street, which you’ve avoided ever since, the stream becomes a river, becomes an ocean and you are drowning once again.
I should have been making her breakfast in bed. Eggs. Scrambled with a dash of milk, as she liked it. A mug of builder’s brew. A fashion magazine on the tray. An expense she couldn’t normally justify.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she would have said. ‘Does this mean I have to do this for you in a few weeks?’
‘As if,’ I’d reply, and she would look at me with her don’t-say-that face, then would shovel the yellow crumbs into her mouth, tapping with her free hand for me to get in next to her.
To distract me from the pain, I thought about you. In doing so, I remembered the card and removed myself from Dale’s bed. Soundless. Put on my dressing gown and crept to my room.
Kneeling on the unhoovered carpet next to the bed, I grabbed my bag and pulled it towards me. Extracted the card. Then searched into the darkness underneath with my arm and dragged out the case, disturbing the dust once more. After pressing a few times to dislodge the rusted left lock, it opened. I tried to avoid the diaries. Just concentrated on placing the latest souvenir with our picture. Safe from prying eyes. Enjoying the feeling of having part of you with me.
Despite the comfort I felt from my growing collection, I was still drawn to her last journal. Like a tarot card on which your mind fixates because you know it holds all the answers.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I dared to lift it out. Wiped my now damp cheeks and the droplets that had fallen to darken the cover. I turned to the last page. It was blank. Turned one backwards. Still blank. Another. And another.
Then there it was.
My beautiful Constance, I’m so sorry—
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sorry, Dale . . . I . . . didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘What’s going on?’
He was coming towards me, dragging his feet and rubbing his eyes. I shut the diary and threw it on top of the heap. Closed the case, checking the dodgy left lock was secure and pushed it back under. ‘Nothing . . . I . . . I just really want to get an urn for her ashes. For my birthday. I really need an urn.’
‘What’s in that case?’
‘Nothing . . . Just things of Mum’s . . . Nothing.’
He knelt by my side and pulled me towards him. Hugged me. I know it sounds selfish, but I wanted it. Needed it. ‘Hey, come on. It’ll be OK, I promise you . . . All I want is to make you feel happy and safe. Not like this anymore,’ he said.
And for that moment I believed him. Thought perhaps I’d got everything wrong. That maybe she’d sent him to me. If I could just love him in return.
But it doesn’t work like that, does it?
Being at the surgery was a struggle.
A stressed-out Linda informed me you were at Harley Street and Dr Short was also absent due to a ‘family issue’, meaning we had to ring and cancel patients or advise them there would be a wait.
I told Linda I had cystitis, so I could keep skiving off to the loo for a cry.
But swollen eyes and vacant looks didn’t deter Alison’s jabbering about her sponsored walk and how she raised nearly £300 for cancer. Like that would help.
On one of my trips to the toilet, I texted you. Said I’d been looking forward to seeing you. Was disappointed you weren’t there. You didn’t respond. So I tried calling when on a sneaky fag break, but it rang out. Though I guessed you’d be busy.
Later, at Edward’s, I couldn’t stop looking towards your blackened windows in the hope of your return before I had to leave.
‘Are you OK, darling girl? You’re very distracted today.’
‘Sorry, Edward. It’s just . . . it’s my mum’s birthday. I’ve been a bit upset, that’s all. It’s crazy really. It’s no different to any other day.’
‘Is that so?’ He pushed himself up off the chair before huffing his way over to a drawer in the huge cabinet and pulled out a yellowed vintage shoebox. I followed him.
‘Push that stuff to the side,’ he said, gesturing to the pile of papers and unidentifiable machine parts covering the dining table. Doing so exposed previously unseen shiny mahogany, which I couldn’t help but stroke. ‘Oh, this is lovely. You really must clear—’
‘Yes, yes . . . never mind that.’ He placed the box down.
I focused on the multicoloured, bruised skin of his hands as he lifted the lid.
‘Crazy, you say.’
Inside was a mass of white envelopes of various sizes. A name scrawled on each. When I dipped my head towards the box, I realized they all said, Amy.
‘If you’re crazy just being sad, how bat-shit does this make me?’
I wanted to open one, but he didn’t offer, so I didn’t ask.
‘Every birthday I write her a card. Tell her I love her. That I may be joining her for her next one.’ Embarrassed, he scrambled for the lid and replaced it. ‘You’re right, though,’ he said. ‘It is ridiculous.’
I moved closer to him. Dropped my head onto his chest. ‘No . . . no, I promise you it’s not at all.’
He reached his arms around me, bony and cold. Kissed the top of my head. And I felt a comfort, safety, that I didn’t want to end.
We remained there, within our private thoughts. Lost. Swaying. Until he said, ‘This better hadn’t all be because you’ve forgotten my Bovril.’
You didn’t return that evening before I had to leave Edward’s, but to my relief, you were back in the surgery the next day. However, it was so busy I didn’t get to see you for the entire morning. Dr Short was still off, so you were booked in with patient after patient. All became hectic, including an incident with the unhinged ex-model Ms Kemple who was waiting for her appointment with Dr Harris. She looked as if she was attending her own funeral and declared herself as ‘dying of the flu’. When informed there’d be a delay, she burst into tears, shouting about how terrible she felt and that she didn’t have her late lover, George, to look after her anymore. Linda ordered me to fetch her a cup of tea. Which I did, while remaining as distant from her and her germs as possible. Even more so when I had to collect up the empty mug, which she’d stuffed with a contaminated tissue. Another example of
money and manners being unconnected.
With everything so chaotic, I didn’t get to your office until lunch.
‘Constance. How are you?’ You glanced at me for a second before turning back to your computer to resume working.
‘I’m . . . I’m good, thanks. I tried to call you yesterday, but I guessed you were busy.’
‘Ah yes, sorry . . . I didn’t have a minute to myself.’ You lifted a sheet of paper. ‘You’ve not seen my pen anywhere, have you? Christ knows what I’ve done with it.’
‘No . . . sorry.’ You mouthed the words you’d begun to type. ‘I’m meeting with Dr Franco in a minute, but do you want to get a drink later?’
Finally you tore yourself from the screen and turned to me. Your eyes missing their target.
‘I’m busy tonight. It’s poker.’
‘Ah yes, of course . . . Sorry, I . . . Tomorrow, then?’
‘I’m just . . . I’ll be busy for a while, Constance, to be honest.’ Which was funny, as you didn’t know the meaning of the word. Your lips formed a condescending smile. And the realization dropped onto me. Like lead from the sky.
‘Sorry, Constance, I really need to finish these notes. I’ve not even had chance to have a drink yet. You couldn’t get me a cup of tea, could you? I’m trying not to have so much coffee. And tea’s your northern girls’ forte, isn’t it?’
In the kitchen, my heart beat an angry rhythm. I placed my arms either side of the sink to gather myself. Swallowed back down the fury. When able to breathe properly again, I stared at the washing-up that they presumably expected me to deal with. Put on the rubber gloves and ran the tap. When the bowl was full, I filled the kettle for your tea and went to wash a cup. Rage bubbling inside me like the Fairy Liquid in the sink. But there was Ms Kemple’s mug on the side. Looking at me. And before I knew it, I’d lifted out the snotty tissue, wiped it around the rim and dropped in a fresh bag.
Back in your room, I placed the tea on your desk.
You didn’t thank me until you’d taken a sip, then sighed. ‘Hmm, lovely. See, I told you.’
‘Did I make it right?’
You blew onto the liquid, then slurped again. ‘Perfect.’ You turned back towards your computer. Dismissing me without words.
‘Before I go, Dr Stevens, can I just ask you, how long do flu germs last on something?’
‘Flu germs? Well, it depends. On hard surfaces, they can last up to twenty-four hours. Why?’
‘I was just wondering.’
I went to leave. Then you said, ‘She’s stopped, by the way . . . Glenn Close . . . Not heard a peep. So all is good again in my world.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, and left.
They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. But I don’t think there’s a line at all. They’re the same thing. What we love we hate for loving. What makes us more vulnerable than love? What hurts as much? It’s a tightrope that we walk. Wavering from one side to the other. Desperate to keep our balance. But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes it tips and there’s nothing you can do.
‘On the day you die, do you think you know when you wake up that morning?’
I was nine years old when I asked her the question. And I’d waited three hours to get it out. Death, including my death, had become an obsession. The nuclear bomb, a hand hovering over a big red button, terrorist attacks, spontaneous combustion – all a continual worry. And I’d instantly freeze at the mere mention of ‘the Big C’.
‘Maybe Dad’s dead? Maybe he knew he was going to die that day?’
She reached the bottom step. Stared at me, glassy-eyed. ‘For fuck’s sake, Constance.’
As if testing the temperature of the sea, she placed the tip of her big toe on the floor. As usual, the water was too cold and she quickly retracted her foot and took herself back up the stairs.
Near the top, on the step with the missing banister post, she stopped and said, ‘The fact is, you never know what’s round the corner in life, good or bad.’ Then tripped on the last step, gathered her dressing gown like a nappy between her legs and disappeared back into her room.
Dr Franco had once again managed to get me talking, exposing.
After leaving your office burdened with both guilt and anger, I wished I’d had the foresight to cancel. But when in that special room, I was lulled into bringing her alive.
‘And what is it about that particular memory that sticks with you?’ He then scribbled intently in his book.
I appreciated his notes now. It showed someone was listening. And there was importance in what he heard.
‘I don’t know.’
‘OK . . . Let me reword that. When I asked you for a memory about your mum that sticks in your mind, why do you think that’s the one that came to the fore?’
‘I don’t know. Her tripping after saying that. It was funny.’
‘So it’s a funny memory for you?’
‘No. Not really.’ I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Attempted to make myself comfortable, knowing nothing would.
‘How did it feel having your mother always being drunk in her room?’
‘It was just how it was.’
‘But how did it make you feel?’
Words snagged on my throat, which led to uncontrollable coughing. He stood and calmly went to a table in the corner, poured a glass of water from a jug and walked back to hand it to me, smiling.
With each swallow, I swilled the emotion back down.
‘Better?’
I nodded, keeping my breaths measured to prevent it happening again. Hoping he’d move on. Respect that I obviously didn’t want to talk about it. But he eased back in his chair and waited. Waited. Waited.
‘It made me angry, I guess.’
‘And how did you express this anger?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Ever?’
‘No . . . Well, sometimes I’d pour her Martini down the sink. If she was too pissed to remember she’d just bought it.’
‘Then what would happen?’
‘She’d buy some more.’
His gold-rimmed glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up with his hairy fingers as his other hand made notes. I’d never noticed how gorilla-like they were before.
‘That must have been very frustrating for you.’
‘As I say, it’s just how it was.’
He smiled, before resting his pen in the centre dip of his pad. ‘Constance . . . what do you think happened to your father?’
I resented the question. He had no right. A darted look showed my disapproval, but he remained unperturbed. ‘I’ve told you – we never knew.’
‘Have you ever tried to find him, contact him?’
‘No . . . I . . . Kind of. I post him cards.’
‘You’ve written to him?’
‘No, no . . . I just post cards with his name on the envelope. Inside, I put my address and number in case it makes it to him somehow. Why would I write to him if I hadn’t found him?’
‘Well, it can be cathartic sometimes – to write it all down without giving it to the person. But what does your gut tell you? Do you feel he’s alive?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Would you rather it that way? That you never know? Say if he’d passed away?’
I pulled my face at the stupidity of the question. ‘Obviously, I’d rather not know.’ My mind changed on the note-taking. It was grating. Intrusive.
‘OK . . . And why is that?’
‘Why on earth would I want to know he’s dead as well?’ I uncrossed my legs, allowing my knees to freely jig up and down.
‘Because you may feel it would be better to have that closure, move on. Let go of the anxiety of never knowing.’
‘Move on? You don’t move on when they die.’ I noticed for the first time how he held his pen awkwardly. Like he hadn’t been corrected at school. It was irritating, and I had the urge to snatch it from his hands and throw it across the room. ‘People need hope, Dr Franco. However sma
ll that hope is.’
He removed his glasses and looked right at me. ‘That is . . . That’s very true, Constance.’
I noticed that he glanced over at the clock, and I was relieved. Expecting him to call time.
‘So, going back to your story . . . Do you think we know on the day we die? What about your mum?’
I stood. ‘Can I get more water, please?’
He gestured for me to help myself.
When I reached the cabinet, I remained with my back to him and said, ‘I think she did, yes.’ Staring at the glasses and ornate jug, I had the same urge to pick them up one by one and smash them through the elongated window. I turned around. ‘She was ill. It was obvious. Like it always is with cancer.’ I walked back to my chair and sat, unable to look at him. Aware he’d sensed my angry tone, I focused on one of his certificates on the wall behind his head. ‘She was exhausted . . . could hardly speak, was on loads of drugs.’ He was writing those fucking notes again. Judging.
‘Did she die in hospital?’
‘No . . . no, she didn’t. She was at home.’
‘That must have been hard for you?’
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. Can we talk about something else?’
He leant forward, making it impossible not to look at him. ‘Constance, often the things we find the most difficult to talk about are the things that talking about can help us with the most.’ I didn’t flinch. Stared him out. He relented, sat back. ‘So, what would you like to talk about?’
‘I’m seeing someone now . . . a man.’
He swung his glasses between his fingers, by their arm.
‘Well, tell me all about it.’ His tone changed. His face reddened. And he spoke like we actually were ‘chatting friends’.
‘Well, I don’t really know what to say. He’s a doctor . . . Oh, no one you know – don’t worry. I met him in my local pub.’
‘Well, Constance, I’m . . . I’m very pleased for you.’ I detected a glint that he wasn’t. ‘And you feel meeting someone has helped you during this difficult time?’
‘Yes . . . yes, it has. His mother died too, you see. We have a special connection. It’s a rare and wonderful thing.’
If I Can't Have You Page 20
